


Maker's Pawn

by Carter_Ash_Official



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carter_Ash_Official/pseuds/Carter_Ash_Official
Summary: Alda Trevelyan's story through the Inquisition (currently a WIP, tags will be updated as characters are introduced)





	Maker's Pawn

“MOTHER!” Alda ran screaming down the hallway. “MOTHER, ADEA TOOK DOLLIE!”

“IT’S MINE!” screeched her older sister. “I NEVER SAID YOU COULD KEEP IT!”

Lady Isabel Trevelyan grabbed both girls by the wrists and dragged them into the study. “What have I said about fighting while your father’s working?”

Adea had the sensibility to look ashamed and bow her head. “We can’t,” she mumbled.

“But it’s mine,” whined Alda. She stamped her foot for good measure. “An’ Adea wants Dollie just ‘cause Grandmother didn’t get her one an’ got her a grown-up teapot.” Her cheeks were bright red with furious frustration, and one of her braids had lost it’s ribbon on her mad dash down the hall.

“Let me see the doll.” Lady Isabel held out her hand expectantly.

Adea handed it over.

The doll was made completely out of cloth and stuffed with cotton. The striped dress, hemmed in silk, was faded. The yarn hair was in badly need of a combing, and the bonnet was a stitch and a half from falling off and revealing that the doll only had hair lining her face.

It was Alda’s, and certainly not even from her mother-in-law. It was too… common-looking. The elder Lady Trevelyan got the girls porcelain dolls, despite Lady Isabel insisting that she shouldn’t; the girls couldn’t play with them.

“This is Alda’s doll,” she declared. “I got this for her when she was teething.”

Adea looked like she’d been slapped. “But Mother-”

Lady Isabel gave her a fierce look. “I had it made to match one of your’s. Your’s has the blue and pink dress. This is Alda’s.” She handed the doll back to its rightful owner. “Now you two go to your room until dinner. _Separately_ ,” she stressed.

Alda had a tendency to barge into Adea’s room to bother her sister.

Lady Isabel watched them go, Alda gloating as she skipped, as eight-year-olds did; and Adea walked like there was a stick keeping her spine straight, refusing to give her sister the satisfaction of thinking she cared, as fourteen-year-olds did.

It would be a nightmare when they were both teenagers.

She sighed and stretched her neck. Perhaps they’d start to get along then, but she wouldn’t bet on it.

Perhaps Adea would agree to traveling across Thedas to study like their cousin Aeron. It was becoming more and more fashionable.

Lady Isabel headed towards the kitchens. Dinner wouldn’t be pleasant after the girls’ spat (it never was), but she was at least going to make sure that the food was good. Good food didn’t sooth tempers, but it was harder to be angry on a full stomach.

The cook was swearing when she entered. Nor did the cook see her until he brought back a willow switch to whack his least-favorite apprentice with and found that it’d hit something. He whirled, ready to let loose one of  his infamous tirades, before he visibly gulped.

She smiled politely at him. “Ser Henry, I’m sure you don’t need an actual lashing to accompany that verbal one.”

“No, Lady.” The cook bowed his head. “What may I do for you, Lady?”

“Tonight’s dinner. I’d like to request a little something extra for dessert, for the girls.” She lowered her voice. “They’ve been at it again.”

The cook nodded. He knew how the pair of them got along. “Perhaps something heavy? Get them nice and tired?”

“Perfect.”

He bowed. “Anything to keep them from ever fighting in here, Lady.”

She nodded her head, as close as she’d get to showering him in praise for saving the peace. “Thank you, Ser Henry.” Lady Isabel swept out of the kitchens and towards the girls’ rooms. It was time that they were allowed out. It was nearly dinner, and their father would be finishing up his meeting.

In fact, Lord Rickton was waiting for her in the corridor. He grimaced. “They’re still fighting.”

“So you heard them?”

“Everyone did.” A small smile twitched under his goatee. “It broke a rather tense… negotiation over the export taxes.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What are we going to do? They’re not going to get along any better as they both hit their teens.”

“We’ll figure it out. Make them share a room.” Lord Rickton grinned at her expression. “No? You don’t want the house demolished? Darling, they’ll get past everything eventually. One day they’ll be like me and my brother.”

“You say that as if it ought to be soothing,” she fired back. Lady Isabel bit back her own grin, knowing she just got him good. “I’ll meet you in the dining room for dinner. I’m going to let the girls know it’s time to eat.”

He winked at her over his shoulder as he headed down the hall.

She rolled her eyes dramatically, well away that he could see her, before she knocked on Adea’s door. “Dinnertime. Be downstairs soon.” The same thing was repeated as she knocked on Alda’s door.

Neither girl was going to leave right away. Well, Alda might, but Adea liked to be late just to irritate her parents after she’d been punished. When Alda was the first to leave her room, the noise she made let Adea know that there was no chance she’d run into her sister in hall.

Lady Isabel took her place at the little table. The family’s private dining room was small, just a delicate table designed to seat six, but could be stretched to seat eight if Rickton’s brother and family were visiting.

Lord Rickton poured her a glass of wine. “Are they coming?”

“They ought to be.” She nodded to the servant to set the bread out.

Her and Lord Rickton were just starting when Adea arrived. Alone. She slid into her seat with a suspicious air of innocence and helped herself to a roll.

Lord Rickton frowned. “Where’s Alda?”

“I believe she’s throwing a tantrum in her room.”

“Andraste’s assets,” swore Lady Isabel. “Why? She got her doll.”

Adea did a shrug that fooled no one. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s playing with it.”

Lady Isabel traded a look with her husband. Something had happened between the girls, but Adea wasn’t saying anything and Alda wasn’t at the table yet. Their silence conversation resulted in an agreement to stay at dinner.

If Alda wasn’t at the table by desert, she’d go check on her.

The servants set the soup tureen down in the center of the table. Steam curled up, slowly dissipating into the air. It looked, if it got any hotter, like it was about to boil.

Lord Rickton reached for the ladle.

And then the door burst open.

“LOOK!” screeched Alda. In one hand she clutched the doll. In the other was the bonnet. The poor doll’s bald head was exposed to only have yarn on the sides. “LOOK WHAT ADEA DID!”

Lady Isabel turned her thunderous glare onto her eldest, knowing full well that Rickton would be doing the same.

And then a very large  amount of things happened. A bit of plaster fell off the wall from where the door handle had dented it. Adea shrugged yet again. Lady Isabel opened her mouth to lecture her daughter, unaware that her husband was doing the same.

But what overrode everything else was the deafening crack of quality porcelain breaking. The sound shot through the air like it’d been launched by trebuchets and silenced everything. Every set of eyes, aside from Alda’s by the door, slowly looked down at the soup tureen.

It was frozen solid. The soup inside was as hard as a brick and, as Lady Isabel discovered, the ceramic tureen was still warm, albeit in pieces.

“Now I broke something Adea likes!”

Lady Isabel’s head snapped up to look at Alda. She was still in the doorway, clutching her doll and bonnet, but the finger she was pointing at the tureen was glowing.

Magic.

She’d-

Lady Isabel clasped a hand over her mouth. No, no, her baby couldn’t be a Mage, it had to have been something else- Panic was settling in around her heart.

Lord Rickton was silent for a beat before he held up his wife’s wine glass. “Alda, can you freeze this too?”

“Yes.” And she did so. The glass turned frosty, the wine no longer sloshing around.

No. No no no, not Alda, she couldn’t-

Adea stared at her sister before whispering “demon child.”

Alda frowned. “Mother? What’s wrong? An’ why’s Adea not in trouble! She ripped Dollie’s hat off!”

“Oh, oh Alda,” Lady Isabel got out of her seat and crouched down next to her. “You used magic.” And she started to sob, clutching her daughter to her chest.

Alda would have to go to Ostwick.

* * *

 

_The trees are pretty. It looks like the Maker spilled ink on the sky._

Alda was squished between Mother and Father. They hadn’t told her where they were going, but Adea got to spend the day with Auntie Esme and Uncle Ron, so she got Mother and Father all to herself.

A lot of circles were talked about. She asked if there were squares and triangles too, and Father laughed. It wasn’t a real laugh.

And Mother kept crying. Her handkerchief was shoved in her coat sleeve to hide that she kept wiping tears away.

“It’s allergies,” she explained.

But Alda thought allergies happened in spring, and it was winter. Even Dollie got a winter cloak and a new hat. This one was meant to come off, and Dollie now had hair all around her head.

Alda stood up in the carriage and stared out the window. Her mittens slipped against the glass. “Father?”

“Yes, Darling?”

“Can I spend tomorrow with Auntie Emse an’ Uncle Ron like Adea? I like their toys. Aeron has this neat cart set Auntie says he doesn’t like anymore an’ I wanna play with it. An’ Dollie likes Uncle Ron’s hugs.”

Father looked very sad. “I don’t think so, Darling.”

“But-”

“Alda,” Mother said. Her voice was all scratchy. “Come here. Please.”

Alda thought she was too old to sit on laps, but Mother and Father scooted close and held her on their laps. Mother was crying again. Father looked like he was about to.

Something wasn’t right, but Alda didn’t know what. “Did someone die?”

“No.” Mother shook her head.

“Then why’s everybody crying?” She hugged Dollie closer. Dollie didn’t need to be sad too.

“Because…” Father’s voice came above her head. “Because we love you so much.”

Mother nodded in agreement.

She was still not sure that was why they were crying. Mother and Father never cried because they loved someone so much, unless Grandmother was talking about how they cried when Adea, and then Alda, were born.

But she didn’t want to make them cry more, so she let them hold her close. “I love you, too.”

Mother cried harder.

The carriage kept going. Sometimes it’d bounce or hit something, and usually Alda would giggle and laugh and shriek because it was fun to go over bumps. But Mother and Father were too sad for her to have fun. These bumps weren’t fun bumps.

But she was getting too warm. “Mother, can you hold Dollie? I’m too hot now. Father’s arms are too hot.”

“Of course.” Mother took Dollie.

Alda slid off their laps and went back to looking out the window. “I see a tower! Look, look, it’s so tall!”

Mother cried really loud. All of the makeup on her eyes was gone now.

Father was crying now, too. He leaned forward to look out the window. “That’s the Mage Circle of Ostwick.”

“What’s a Mage?”

“Someone who uses magic. They all live in the tower.”

Alda frowned. “Only Mages? What about their mothers and fathers?”

Father wiped his nose. “They write letters every day and send presents.”

It didn’t sound very fun. “Oh.” The carriage turned and the tower disappeared from the window. “Why are we going there? Do we need a Mage?”

Mother leaned into Father, sobbing. And Father didn’t answer.

“Why are we going there?” Alda asked again. “Mother, why?” She was starting to feel scared. So she climbed back up onto their laps and wrapped her arms around Father. Mother had Dollie to hold, and she was holding Dollie very tightly.

The carriage stopped.

Mister Driver, who’s real name she didn’t know, opened the doors. “We’re here, M’Lord.”

Mother’s crying got really loud.

Father carried Alda out of the carriage. His arms were tight around her. “Darling, there’s some people you need to meet.”

“Alright, Father.” She puffed out her breath, watching it make a cloud. “We’re like dragons.”

But Father wasn’t paying attention. He put Alda down and held her hand as they walked towards a lot of old people. Mother took up Alda’s other hand.

She frowned at the old people. They were all old like Mother and Father, and some were even older like Grandmother. And they were all wearing ugly dresses. Other people were lining the courtyard. They looked like the Knights out of her stories. Their armor was all shiny and their helmets had feathers.

“Who’re they, Mother?”

“Shush, Alda.” Mother’s hand was tight around her’s.

“Templars, Darling. And these people are Mages.” Father nodded politely to the Mages. He didn’t bow unless the people he was meeting were more important than him.

The oldest Mage bowed. His knee cracked. It sounded very loud in the quiet courtyard. “Lord Trevelyan.”

It was going to be an important meeting if he was calling Father Lord Trevelyan. Alda didn’t want to pay attention, so she started to look around at the courtyard. The shiny-armored Templars were watching her. She smiled, but none of them smiled back.

“She’s a Mage,” Father said.

Alda looked up. Who was a Mage?

But then the really old Mage approached her and knelt. His knees cracked again. “Hello, Alda. I’m First Enchanter Bryson.” He smelled like onions. And his ugly dress was getting all wet in the snow. “Would you do some magic for us?”

“I don’t know any magic.” Of course she didn’t know any magic. Father had just said in the carriage that a Mage was someone who did magic, and Alda didn’t do magic.

Mother squeezed her hand. “Tell him what you did to the soup.”

“Oh. I made it freeze because Adea, Adea’s my sister, Adea took the hat off Dollie.”

First Enchanter Bryson smiled like how adults who didn’t like children smiled. “Did you now?”

“Yes. I just said so.”

“Alda, be nice,” whispered Mother.

First Enchanter Bryson pulled a very dirty teacup out of his pocket and scooped snow into it. He waved his hand over it and suddenly it was boiling. “Can you freeze this?”

Mother’s hand was very very tight around her’s. And Father was crying again. Alda shook her head. “I don’t want to.” Something bad was going to happen if she made it freeze.

“Alda.” Mother’s voice was scratchy again.

Father smiled, even though he didn’t mean it, and nodded. “It’s alright, Darling. Freeze it.”

Alda looked at the teacup and thought of it as filled with snow again. And- Then it was. “See? I said I could, but I didn’t want to!”

Mother fell down and pulled Alda to her, sobbing. “There had to be a different way, not my baby, not her-”

The Templars grabbed Mother and pulled her away from Alda.

Father took her hand and held her close. “Darling, I need you to be very brave, alright? For Mother and I.” He picked up Dollie from the snow. “You’re a Mage.”

“So I did magic? With the freezing?”

Mother was sitting in the snow sobbing. Her face was all red and blotchy. “Oh, Darling. My poor Darling.”

Father nodded. “So you have to stay here with the Mages so you learn to use your magic.”

“But I wanna be with you and Mother and Adea!” Now Alda understood why Mother and Father were crying. “No, I don’t wanna live here! I want to go home!”

“It might not be forever. And you can come visit when you want to, and Mother and I will visit. We’ll bring Dollie clothes, too.” Father led her closer to the Mages. One of them wasn’t a real Mage. She was one of the Chantry Mothers, with her fancy hat. “This is Mother Beatrice. She’s going to make sure you’re alright here.”

Mother Beatrice was very old, almost as old as Grandmother, Alda decided. She smiled down at her, but Alda didn’t smile back. She didn’t feel like smiling. She wanted to cry.

“You have to go with her,” Father said. He gave Alda a tight hug and kissed both her cheeks. “I’ll send you a letter every day.”

Mother hugged her goodbye as well, kissing her cheeks, her hair, taking Alda’s hands and promising that she would send her books and hair ribbons and some of Cook’s little cookies.

And then Mother and Father were being put back in the carriage by the Templars and Mother Beatrice was holding Alda’s hand.

* * *

 

The girl got one of the better rooms. It was meant to be reserved for full Mages and the occasional sick apprentice who needed to be quarantined, but since she was nobility, she was put in a private room.

Mother Beatrice led her through the main apprentice room. There were no children her age here. Only teenagers. The youngest was about eleven, and Alda had shied away from her, hiding behind Mother Beatrice’s robes.

_Poor thing. You’re probably scared._

Her trunk was set up in her room. It wasn’t a large trunk by any standards, and it wasn’t that full. Her own travel case was probably the same size, if not larger.

Alda took in the room silently. “This is mine?”

“Yes, dearie.” The Chantry said not to get close to the Mages, especially the apprentices. It made it worse when they didn’t pass their Harrowing. But Alda was so young and scared that Mother Beatrice couldn’t help herself.

She nodded solemnly. “Alright.” She opened her trunk and stopped. “What do I do now? Mother does this part.” A tear slid down her cheek.

Mother Beatrice sat down on the foot of her bed and handed her a pair of stockings. “Where would you like these to go.”

Alda looked over the room. “In… the drawers?”

“That is a good a place as any.”

Past the stockings and socks was a pair of well-made quilts, and then books. Mother Beatrice inspected them in awe. Watercolors accompanied the stories, which were all about Knights and Princesses and dragons. A couple had mermaids or fairies.

“Do you like books?”

Mother Beatrice looked up at the girl. “I do. Do you like reading books?”

“Yes. This one is my favorite. Princess Peony helps Mister Knight Brian scare off the dragon that was making the sheeps scared.” Alda pointed at the painting. “She’s really pretty. An’ Mister Knight Brian thinks so, too,” she added in a whisper. “What stories do you like?” she continued in a regular voice.

“I love the Chant of Light.”

“”It’s too long.” Alda took her books and put them on the tiny table squished in the corner. “Father said it’s longer than his patience but he still likes going to the Chantry.”

Mother Beatrice watched her finish unpacking her trunk. “Would you like to get your Mage robes now?”

Alda frowned. “Are those the ugly dresses the old people were wearing?”

_You have a very blunt tongue._

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “No thank you. I like my dress. My sister has a matching one.” The girls was hugging herself and looking like she was about to cry.

_Let’s just get this all over with in one fell swoop._

“You didn’t have any other clothes in your trunk.” Mother Beatrice offered Alda her hand. “What if we found you something that wasn’t as ugly?”

The girl looked highly suspicious, but she must’ve decided that Mother Beatrice was alright, because she took her offered hand and allowed herself to be led back down to the apprentice level and into the clothing storage room.

None of the Mage robes were deemed acceptable by her. Mother Beatrice was losing her patience. Every crate marked Mage was opened, little Alda had picked through everything, but didn’t like the ‘scratchy’ cloth nor the colors.

Mother Beatrice was tempted to tell her that she had to pick something, but she didn’t want to risk upsetting her. It was still her first couple hours in the Circle, and her promise to her father to be good was probably still fresh in her mind.

“I like this.” Alda held up an old kitchen tunic. It was red, sleeveless, and there was a faint stain along the hem. “An’ look! Pants and a shirt.”

“Oh, good,” said Mother Beatrice with forced positivity. The girl would look like a street urchin. But with luck, she’d see what all the other apprentices were wearing and change her mind in a couple days.

“An’ there’s more colors.” Alda handed Mother Beatrice various tunics in all colors and sizes. “Alright. I’m good.”

Mother Beatrice smiled from amusement and followed Alda back up the stairs to her room. The tunics, long-sleeved undershirts, and pants were folded (after she taught Alda how to fold) and then put into her little dresser.

A Templar knocked on the door, announcing Donovan. He was one of the friendlier Mages.

Mother Beatrice thought he was alright. He wasn’t anything special as a Mage, but he was good with children. She’d caught him sneaking cookies from the kitchen before.

“Hello, Alda.” He was hiding something behind his back. “Can I see your hand?”

“Why?”

Mother Beatrice caught sight of the pricking needle used to fill a Mage’s phylactery. She didn’t like seeing this part, and stood. “I’ll be right back, Alda. When I get back, would you like to read me a story?”

Alda didn’t seem to hear her. She was still focused on Donovan. “I wanna know why.”

Mother Beatrice left the room and headed anywhere else but where there would be blood. She hated blood.

And then the screaming started.

* * *

 

First Enchanter Bryson did not like being interrupted, especially when he was trying to nap while pretending to look busy.

“SER! SER!”

He blinked sleep out of his eyes and frowned at the apprentice. It was one of the younger fellows, name started with an E- Evan? Ethan? “What?”

“The girl, the new girl from the nobles.” The apprentice's eyes were the size of saucers. “She- Maker’s balls, Ser, she- she bloody- Donovan.”

_Damned apprentice._

“Show me.” Bryson adjusted his belt and selected one of his two staves. The less-impressive, practical one.

Edward- Elliot- Whatever his cursed name was, the apprentice ran down the corridor towards the stairs.

Bryson did not run. It was one of his principles. Running wasn’t very much like something a First Enchanter would do, and if he ran, his hip would give out. So he took his time with the stairs. A chill hit him halfway down.

“Someone close that window,” he ordered.

The Templar closest to him didn’t move. “It’s not a window, Ser.”

_What did that girl do?_

He settled on a fast walk. It kept his dignity intact, and his hip was agreeable. As he neared the corridor that her room was in, his breath started to form a cloud.

Templars lined the wall, prepared to follow whatever orders he was about to give.

And then he forgot everything he was going to order.

The girl, Alda Trevelyan, had turned the corridor into winter. Her door was open, coated in ice. Snow drifted down from the icicles overhead. She was standing in the middle of her room, screaming. Lightning arched off her.

Every step he took closer made him realize that she was the source of the suddenly frigid inside. His hands were starting to wish for gloves.

“I WANNA GO HOME!” She screeched. A heavy bolt of lightning rocketed off her and slammed into the door.

Donovan was cowering in the corner. A healthy layer of frost covered his hair.

_This much magic, and she doesn’t even look tired._

He raised his hand and signaled to the Templars. They knelt, beginning to drain the magic away.

Alda screamed again. “NO! I WANNA GO HOME!” The air crystalized. Everything hung in place, like a perfect winter afternoon right after a snowfall. Lightning crackled up her arms, arcing off her haphazardly.

Bryson’s blood froze in his veins, but it had nothing to do with the fluxuations in the temperature she was causing.

Alda was powerful. Maker, was she powerful. The Templars were actively draining her magic, and she was still full of it.

It took a full ten minutes until she was empty, and fell over sobbing. Mother Beatrice gathered her up and tucked her into her bed.

Knight-Commander Koleman had arrived by then.

Bryson knew exactly what he was going to say, and he was not going to allow it to happen. He put his foot down before Koleman could even suggest it. “No Rite of Tranquility. She’s eight years old. This is her first night here. She needs time to adjust.”

Koleman was silent. He wasn’t much of a talker to begin with.

“But she has too much magic,” Bryson continued. He gestured for them to head up the stairs to his office. “There has been research done on some… rituals.” He didn’t say where. If Koleman didn’t ask, he wouldn’t know, and what Koleman didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“What kind of rituals?”

“They will stem her flow of power. Shield her from demons. Most demons. She’ll have as much power as the average Mage.” A distant cousin in Tevinter had sent them over years ago.

Koleman looked as though he was considering it. It took a lot of him to think. The lyrium didn’t exactly strengthen his mind.

Bryson sat at his desk, fingers steepled together, awaiting.

“Do it.” Koleman nodded. “We’ll do what we can.”

“Perfect. Here’s what we need.”

* * *

 

The Templars kept an eye on her for a week.

They kept an eye on her when she woke up sobbing in the middle of the night, calling out for her mother and father.

They kept an eye on her during mealtimes when she picked at whatever was placed in front of her.

They kept an eye on her as she ran about the Circle, exploring it, doll clasped tightly to her side, trailing hair ribbons and then backtracking for them.

At the end of the week, Mother Beatrice brought her some warm milk to settle her stomach.

The Templars waited silently, watching.

Alda downed the milk and walked her cloth doll along the library shelves. She’d already told them, the Templars, that there were no good books and that tomorrow she’d read them one of her favorites.

Halfway around the library she started to slow. Two-thirds around, she stopped talking to her doll and stumbled.

And at three-quarters of the way around, she was out. The sleeping draught had worked perfectly. Templars carefully picked her up, making sure she had her doll, and gave her to Mother Beatrice to tuck into bed.

She had to be sleeping for the ritual to happen.

The Templars climbed the stairs to the Harrowing chamber. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

 

It had been a quiet winter.

Mother Beatrice walked the corridors with a Templar, making sure the apprentices were asleep. Some had little baubles of light floating over their books or scrolls, too lost in their reading to realize it was bedtime.

Soon they wouldn’t need the lights, summer was on it’s way and it would get dark much later.

She paused at the stairs and started up them. Little Alda was beginning to sleep through the nights without calling out for her parents.

Mother Beatrice peeked into her room. Her door wasn’t meant to be made of petrified wood, but her little tantrum from her first day had petrified the door with lightning. It was impossible to fix the creaking when it opened.

The girl’s bed was empty.

“She’s gone,” she hissed to the Templar.

He turned and left.

_If she was kidnapped for ransom against the Trevelyans- No. That’s been outlawed. I’ve been reading too many of those books._

Mother Beatrice muttered a small prayer to Andraste that little Alda was alright. If Maker blessed them, she was just out of her room and going to the bathroom, and not somewhere far away, crammed in a filthy cart and gagged to keep her from screaming.

Her precious doll wasn’t in her room, either.

That soothed her nerves. Little Alda took that doll everywhere, and no one had the heart to pry it away from her.

Someone screamed downstairs.

Mother Beatrice thundered down to find the apprentices and other startled Mages all staring at a now-deceased corpse of a deepstalker. It’d been hit with various fire spells.

“It came from the kitchens,” an apprentice stammered out.

Another scream, this one more high-pitched and coming from a far-younger mouth, came from the kitchens.

She followed the Mages, flanked by apprentices, into the kitchen.

Deepstalkers were running amok as they climbed out of the ladder that led to the underground larder. They had to have burrowed in through the dirt walls.

The apprentices set to work, blasting them to bits. The Mages kept the apprentices’ magic from setting things, such as the counters and carving tables, on fire.

Mother Beatrice was looking for the source of the second scream. She peered in the barrels, under the counters, cupboards, the enormous cauldron in case someone had fallen in. The scream had to come from somewhere. It was too human to have come from the deepstalkers.

She threw open the pantry and found little Alda huddled between flour sacks, sobbing and clutching her doll in a death grip.

A Templar appeared next to her. “I see you found her.” He knelt down to Alda’s level. “You alright?”

Her eyes focused on something above his helmet and she screamed again before bursting into hysterical tears.

Mother Beatrice let out a very un-Motherly curse as the deepstalker leapt onto the Templar.

The Templar tossed it towards the apprentices with ease. “It’s gone, now, girl. You can stop crying.”

But she didn’t. Alda was inconsolable and shaking.

Mother Beatrice nodded meaningfully at the Templar to pick her up. “She’s a little girl. This had been an ordeal for her. She needs a good mug of warm milk and bed.”

Alda bawled into the Templar’s shoulder. “An’ an’ an’ it tried to bite me an’ it was so scary an’ an’ an’...”

The Templar looked incredibly awkward as he carried her towards the stairs.

Mother Beatrice picked her way over the dead deepstalkers towards the large milk jugs, paused by the First Enchanter’s secret liquor cabinet. Alda would need something stronger to put her to bed after being that terrified.

* * *

 

Alda leaned further over the alter.

“Please Andraste,” she whispered. “I want to go home. I don’t want to be a Mage. An’ Dollie’s forgiven Adea for stealing her hat. An’ there were deepstalkers that were really scary an’ I just wanna go home, please.”

The statue remained still.

Alda rocked back on her heels. “I’ll come back tomorrow again so you know I’m serious.”

She didn’t see Mother Beatrice at the back of the little Chantry, and so Alda didn’t see the Mother’s stricken expression nor hear the little prayer that she said.

But Mother Beatrice prayed to Andraste that Alda would find a home among her fellow Mages.

* * *

 

The window was stuck again. Alda gritted her teeth and straddled the sill, using her back to push the window open. It wasn’t the best idea, but it worked.

The summer breeze brought in the smell of the forest.

It would’ve been a lovely day, if she was allowed outside, but apparently being too good at magic meant that she had to spend the weeks learning more battle magic. The problem was that she couldn’t even conjure a flame, and most battle magic had to do with fire. So she’d had to have private lessons to learn how to weaponize ice and lightning.

Very tedious lessons.

First Enchanter Bryson had gotten a bee in his bonnet that the Blight in Fereldan would come to the Free Marches next. Alda insisted that no boat would bring darkspawn, because what captain would want darkspawn on a boat, but he was certain that if the Grey Wardens didn’t kill some super-demon, then they were the next target.

She watched a raven fly out of the top of the tower.

_It would be fun to fly. I could visit Mother and Father again._

Twice she’d been permitted to visit, Once, for her first birthday away from home, and the past holidays. Father’s hair was turning gray, and Mother’s face had more lines. They’d expressed shock at how tall she was.

“Only thirteen? Why, you could give Cousin Aeron a run for his money if you got any taller!” Father had picked her up and swung her around. Alda knew she was still short. Mother was taller than her.

Mother had tried to cheer her up since Adea was off traveling Thedas for her studies, and wouldn’t be able to see her. It’d been a rather alright holiday. Aunt Esme and Uncle Ron have visited, too. Grandmother had come for a day and made her practice her ladylike walking and writing.

Being back at the Circle was now boring. The older apprentices were all doing their Harrowing, and the others that weren’t old enough were either studying for the Harrowing or tiny children.

Alda made sure the window was going to stay open and selected a new book that Mother and Father had sent her. The veritable mountain of books had been growing on her little table had finally be given a shelf next to her door.

She propped herself up on her bed and started to read.

* * *

 

Mother Beatrice had heard her saying something foul, and washed her mouth out with soap before sending her to say a whole lot of the Chant of Light. The argument of “it’s not like Andraste listens, I’m still a Mage” didn’t work on the Mother.

So Alda sat sullenly in the little Chantry, mumbling her way through the Chant.

It was autumn. Mother had send a rather impressive package of a new cloak, proper trousers since Alda still refused to wear the horrid robes, new hair ribbons, and a lovely blue scarf from Grandmother, intended to be given on her birthday a couple weeks ago.

She wanted to go read the new book Father had picked out for her.

The Chant of Light was boring, but Mother Beatrice would tell First Enchanter Bryson that she skipped her punishment and then she’d be stuck with the grouchy Templars.

It was her opinion that all Templars were grouchy. Very few weren’t. Mister Templar Gavin was rather alright. Ser Gavin, she called him. He liked to hear her read her stories out loud. He couldn’t read himself, and sometimes he asked her to write letters for him. She got the feeling that he didn’t want people to know that he couldn’t read.

Sometimes, if he was watching over her, she’d share one of Cook’s little sweet cookies with him. He reminded Alda of Uncle Ron. They both had a crooked nose and wild eyebrows.

Armor clacked behind her.

Alda shot to her feet, running down low to hide behind the pews as she headed for the alcove to the side. It was one of the visiting Templars. Knight Commanders from other Circles were touring Ostwick to see why so few Mages fell to the Harrowing. First Enchanter Bryson said it was because so few Mages were part of their Circle in the first place. Alda still wasn’t quite sure what the Harrowing was, but she knew it was dangerous.

There was also talk of something in a place called Kirkwall.

Alda had overheard enough to know that she never wanted to go there. She’d told Ser Gavin and he’d laughed before telling that she while she didn’t have all the information, her common sense was sound.

The visiting Templar wasn’t very old. There was a fresh scar on his top lip, and his armor was a little too shiny. Like it was brand new.

_No, he’s not old at all._

He was about the same age as the apprentices-turned-Mages that’d passed their Harrowing.

Alda stayed silent, seeing what he was going to do. Sometimes she caught Mages spitting on Andraste’s statue. It was rude. She didn’t think Andraste heard her (because Alda was certainly still a Mage), but it wasn’t their statue to spit on.

Instead the Knight-Commander bowed and starter to pray.

She slipped out of the back door. Overhearing someone else’s prayer was almost as rude as spitting on the statue.

* * *

 

The Templars were following her.

Alda ducked under the stairs and curled up under them, watching and listening. It was getting annoying. Even when she’d gone home for Mother and Father’s anniversary ball, Ser Gavin and another Templar had to escort her.

Mother and Father had given each Templar a present for keeping her safe. Ser Gavin had been honored. The other Templar was stoic.

Alda had gotten a very pretty dress for the ball. Adea was there, but she wouldn’t speak to her. She was too busy with her friends from Orlais. Cousin Aeron couldn’t visit, either. The Knight he was a squire for wouldn’t let him take time off.

She hadn’t even done a lot of magic at home. Just a little bit to cool her flute of juice, and suddenly the Templar whose name she didn’t know was saying that she couldn’t do that, she had to go back to the Circle, it was a risk…

And since she’d gotten back, a pair of Templars had been following her around. Waiting outside her door, in the library, the practice rooms.

It got exceptionally exhausting after a week.

So she’d decided to see how dedicated they were to being her shadow, and ran down the levels to the basement and was now currently under the stairs.

Heavy boots started down the stairs, followed with the clanking of armor.

The Templars.

Alda pressed herself tighter into the little cubby, knees to her chin.

The boots appeared in her line of sight before a gauntleted hand held itself out. “Miss Alda, you’re not hiding very well.”

Ser Gavin.

She crawled out, glaring at him. “Why am I being followed?”

He was a horrible actor. Ser Gavin over-shrugged, looking anywhere but her. “I don’ know, Miss.”

Alda looked up at the top of the stairs. The two Templars that had been following her were at the top of them, silently watching her. “So these two just happen to be going from the library, up to the hallway outside the First Enchanter’s rooms, then all the way down here?”

“Must be so, Miss.” Ser Gavin still wasn’t looking at her.

Brilliant.

She scowled and started up the stairs. “I love not being told things. It’s not like I’m a child anymore.”

Ser Gavin’s voice carried up to her. “But you’re still a teenager.”

“Not for long!”

* * *

 

First Enchanter Bryson looked his age. The lines around his eyes were deep, he’d lost weight in the past couple years, and what hair he had was short and only ringed the sides of his head. He still stank of onions.

The lyrium lighting him up from below wasn’t exactly flattering, either.

Alda stared around the Harrowing room, knowing exactly what was about to happen, and not entirely certain whether or not if she should be scared.

Templars ringed the perimeter of a large circle drawn in chalk. If Alda laid down on her back and stretched stretched her arms above her head, then maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to touch the circle with her feet in the middle of it.

First Enchanter Bryson handed her the goblet full of lyrium. “Drink it all,” he rasped.

She stared it it. The lyrium didn’t have eyes, but it felt like it was staring back. Alda raised it to her lips and tipped it back, draining the goblet.

And then-

Nothing.

Alda inspected the goblet. It was gold-plated, not solid gold. A bit of it was heavily dented at the base, showin off the pewter core. She doubted that the jewels were real, too. They didn’t sparkle like Mother’s.

“What was supposed to hap-”

Everything turned sideways.

* * *

 

_She sat up in a tub of water. Droplets streamed off her and floated up into the air._

_Alda reached out and touched one._

_It rolled down her finger, leaving no trace of wetness behind, all the way down her finger, her palm, wrist until her sleeve stopped it and the droplet was absorbed._

Interesting.

_She took in her surroundings. It was the Fade. A new, rather odd part of the Fade. It looked like her bathroom at Mother and Father’s house._

_Painted tiles decorated the walls and floor, and seashells were pressed into the ceiling. Soft pink candles that smelled like roses were burning on nearly every surface. It was certainly the Fade because no where else did water float upwards._

_Alda climbed out of the tub, not even wet._

_And not even in her clothes from the Circle. Her trousers, smock, and shirt were replaced with the gown she’d worn to Mother and Father’s anniversary ball._

_She looked in the mirror and bit back a startled yelp._

_Her reflection wasn’t there. Instead, a twisted, horrible-looking thing covered in rags leered back. As she watched, frost grew over it’s hood every time it released a rattling breath. She got the sense it was staring at her with interest._

_“Alda, Darling, are you in there?” Father knocked on the door. “Can you come out?”_

Father can’t be in the Fade. He’s not a Mage.

_No, there was something suspicious going on. Alda leaned in close to the mirror. She’d never seen a demon up close. “Hello.”_

_“Alda? Alda, open up.”_

Don’t open it.

_She couldn’t put her finger on why, but opening the door seemed like a horrible idea._

_“Please open up, Alda. I cut my hand and need to use your sink,” said Father’s voice._

_Alda stared at the thing in her mirror and shook her head. “I won’t open the door.”_

_Someone started hammering on the door. “Alda? Oh my Darling, please tell you you’re alright, please, let me see you, Darling.” Mother’s voice was shaking like she’d been crying. “They took you away and I heard such terrible things. Please, Darling. Mother’s very worried about you. Open the door, Alda.”_

_The demon in the mirror shifted it’s head, as if it was sensing that this ploy wasn’t working._

_She frowned back. Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to open the door._

_“DEMON CHILD!” Adea bellowed. “I KNEW YOU WERE SOME LITTLE CURSE-RIDDLED THING. MOTHER AND FATHER SENT YOU AWAY BECAUSE WHO WANTS A MAGE IN THE FAMILY?”_

_Alda stamped down on her fury. Whatever was on the other side of the door sounded eerily identical to Adea. “I won’t open the door,” she hissed, half to herself and half to the demon._

_An arrow thudded through the door._

_Mother screamed. Father roared something about a shield and protecting Adea and Mother. Anther arrow hit the door._

_“Alda, help! We’re under attack! Alda!” Mother cried out. Something heavy hit the door, and then a red puddle began to seep under it. “NO! ADEA! NO, RICKTON, NO, ADEA- SHE-”_

Don’t open it, don’t open it, you can’t.

_Mother’s wailing made Alda clench the sink, knuckles white._

_No one had a right to attack Mother or Father, real or in a dream._

_She pulled her magic in, feeling it flood her veins._

_And then Alda kicked open the door._

_Pitch darkness greeted her. No screaming, no Mother nor Father nor Adea. Just empty black. And the sounds of something shuffling towards her._

_The bathroom candles seemed to be losing their light. The flames shrunk as the bathroom was plunged into iciness._

_The shuffling was closer. And closer, and closer, and closer… the temperature was dropping. Candles sputtered and the shadows danced haphazardly on the walls._

_A faded black rag slowly appeared out of the inky emptiness. And then the rest of the demon. It was the demon from the mirror. Slowly it raised it’s head and two eyes, burning white from under the hood, stared back._

_“You like it cold?” Alda asked. “So do I.” She clapped her hands together and brought a blizzard down on them._

_The demon’s shriek curdled her blood._

_She put more magic into her snowstorm, making it colder, until she even felt like she was about to freeze herself. Alda pushed through the bellowing wind to find the demon frozen solid at the bathroom door._

_Lightning crackled from her hands and cracks appeared down the demon’s hands._

_Alda unceremoniously tipped the demon over and shoved it out the door, before slamming it shut and locking it. “And stay out, you bastard.”_

_Every candle flickered back to life._

_She climbed back into the tub and hunkered down in the water, pretending she wasn’t still hearing her family’s screams in her ears._

* * *

 

Knight-Commander Koleman wasn’t used to being questioned. There were certain people who he’d allow to question him, like First-Enchanter Bryson or Mother Beatrice. Occasionally one of the younger, new Templar who thought they could get all uppity.

He used those Templars as an example of why he didn’t tolerate questions from them.

But Ser Gavin was one of the veteran Templars. He’d been at Ostwick for years, silent and doing his duty without question.

So when he stepped between Knight-Commander Koleman and the mage currently undergoing her Harrowing, Koleman was dumbfounded.

“Give her more time. She’ll survive,” Ser Gavin insisted. His gray hair stood out starkly in the dim light.

Koleman frowned. “It’s been nearly an hour. We’ve already given her extra time.”

Ser Gavin was relentless. “She’ll come through. I know it.”

Her eyes popped open. They were an unnatural empty white, like her iris and pupil had been removed. “You like it cold?” she whispered. “So do I.” Her fingers twitched.

“The demon’s inside her,” Koleman hissed. “You know what happened to the Fereldan Circle. We need to start the Rite of Tranquility or kill her.”

Ser Gavin opened his mouth to argue but didn’t get far enough to make a noise.

Behind him came the sound of something cracking, rather like ice being put into a room-temperature liquid, only infinitely louder. “AND STAY OUT!” Koleman pushed Ser Gavin aside and stared down at the Mage apprentice in faint horror.

She was coated in frost.

As he stared, her eyes opened, no longer a dull white but the odd blueish color they always were. Koleman knelt and laid a hand on her forehead. No demon was in her, and he could sense the old barrier spells that had dammed her power from a tidal wave into a small trickle.

“Ser Koleman?” she whispered. “Did I pass?”

“Yes, girl.” He nodded at Ser Gavin to help her up. “You’re a Mage.”

“Oh.” She didn’t look excited. Instead she blinked around the room, dazed. “Can I go visit my family to tell them?”

He was tempted to say yes. A Harrowing was not to be taken lightly, and visiting her family could do her good. But he remembered that power in her. The barrier spells protecting her from every demon that would descend upon her to try and get their hands on her strength.

_What if they fail? What if she breaks them? She can’t leave the Circle. Not that she a full Mage now. It’s too dangerous._

Koleman sighed and shook his head. “Sorry, girl, no. Too dangerous.” He didn’t tell her why.

She bowed her head. “Alright, Ser. May I be excused to my room?”

“Yes. And congratulations.”

* * *

 

She thought being a full Mage would mean that she wasn’t stuck in the Circle all the time, but apparently she’d thought wrong. Very wrong.

It was worse than before she’d undergone her Harrowing.

Three Templars were with her everywhere. Orders from Knight-Commander Koleman, they insisted, but wouldn’t say why.

Alda wasn’t the only Mage with an entourage. Most Mages now had a Templar following them. She was the lucky one who had triple the usual amount.

Ser Gavin wasn’t allowed to be on her detail. He’d interfered with her Harrowing, and was stuck guarding the lyrium. It was a very tedious post. No one went for lyrium.

She rolled over, and nearly flattened Dollie. Alda fished her out from under her pillow and smiled at the doll. The stitched face was faded, the yarn hair was mostly unraveled and a bit wild, and the silk lining her dress was all pilled and worn. Her bonnet had gotten lost under her bed for a couple years and was now living in a box on her bookshelf, lest she lose it again.

The Templar sleeping on the stool in the corner shifted in her sleep.

Alda stared at the ceiling of her room. She was a full Mage, but now what? She was just past her twenty-first birthday, and she was getting tired of the Circle. It was feeling less of a place of learning and more like a prison.

Templars guarding her day and night weren’t helping matters. She wanted to go run outside, not in the tower’s courtyard, but in the forest. She wanted to see the Waking Sea. Aunt Emse and Uncle Ron had sent her a sand dollar from one of their trips.

She wanted to hunt around for a sand dollar. Feel the waves wash over her. Be able to pick an apple from a tree and not from a shipment barrel.

But all that happening was as likely as Fereldan and Tevineter switching weather.

Something was happening to other Circles. Knight-Commander Koleman and some of his senior Templars had been discussing it in whispers. The apprentices overhead, and the rumors spread around like wildfire.

That was when the Templars following everyone around started up.

A crash came from upstairs.

She sat up, setting Dollie on her pillow. The Templar didn’t wake up.

Alda pulled a blanket around her shoulders to ward off the mid-autumn chill and slipped out her door, creeping down the hall.

The apprentices had set fire to something. A good old non-magical fire, too. They were running around, staves firing spells at the Templars and anything that moved.

A Templar banner. That was what was burning.

_A riot._

Alda backed into a corner, watching.

It must be the changing of the Templar guards. There’s barely any here. And- Yep.

The door to the Templar’s floor was barred shut with a stack of barrels. Voices were roaring over the cracking fire, something about another route-

She slunk through the shadows back to her room, ideas that had only lived her in dreams springing up.

Her door was thrown open and her Templar guard burst out, sword drawn as she barreled towards the riot.

Alda sprang back into her room, slammed her door shut and shoving her stool under the handle. As fast as she dared, without messing anything up, she threw important things into an old ingredient sack. Winter cloak, mittens, comb. Socks. She didn’t dare grab her stave. It wasn’t impressive to begin with, and she didn’t need to be recognized as a Mage, especially outside of the Circle.

She tucked an extra shirt and trousers into the bag, deemed it as full as it could get, and pulled on her vest. The vest wasn’t anything special. It kept her shirts from getting stained with herbs when she was helping Mother Beatrice making poultices. But it would keep her warm. Alda yanked on her boots and froze.

Dollie.

She couldn’t leave Dollie.

Alda grabbed her doll and made for the lower floor, skidding down the stairs and sprinting through the corridors.

“Hey!”

A hand grabbed her wrist.

She frozen, caught. “I just- I- Ser Gavin?”

He looked ancient in the dim light. “Miss Alda, where are you going?”

“I- I can’t stay here anymore.” The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I feel like a prisoner. I want to be free. I want to see what it’s like outside the tower.”

Ser Gavin looked torn in two. “I know, Miss Alda, but-”

“But? What am I going to do, spend the rest of my life in my room? In the tower?” Alda lowered her voice before it got squeaky. “I don’t want to live my whole life here. Or in another Circle. Please let me go.”

Something shifted in his face. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“No. That’s the first place they’ll look for you. You can’t go there, Miss Alda, but you can go anywhere else.”

She now waited for the words to come, but none did. Finally she spoke. “But… how will Mother and Father know I’m alright?”

His shrug wasn’t particularly soothing. “I don’t know.”

“You’ll get caught letting me escape.”

“I know, Miss Alda, but I don’t think Mages should be stuck in these towers either.” He ran a hand down his face. “And… I was thinking of retiring anyway. Find a nice place to live.”

She held out Dollie. “If you happen to go the Trevelyan manor, could you give this to Mother and Father? I’m certain that they’ll remember you from that trip and they’ll make sure you’re alright wherever you retire to.”

The old Templar gently took the doll, cradling her in his arms. “Thank you, Miss Alda. Be careful.” He nodded at the front entrance. “Don’t let them catch you.”

She smiled and slipped out the door.

_Free. I’m free._

The breeze seemed to smell optimistic, too.

* * *

 

“SHE WHAT?” First Enchanter Bryson shot to his feet, winced and rubbed his hip, before resuming his livid glare.

Knight-Commander Koleman was seething. “She. Escaped.” Each word had to be said on it’s own, forced through clenched teeth. Ser Gavin had already been fired. There wasn’t anything to prove, but after her Harrowing a couple years ago, Koleman wasn’t taking any risks.

First Enchanter Bryson paced his office. “Her phylactery?”

“Intact.”

“And? You’re sending people after her?”

“Obviously,” Koleman snapped, nearly biting off his tongue in his frustration. The one Mage that couldn’t be let out of the tower was running around Thedas. “My best are on it.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Koleman’s frustration reached boiling point. He was of equal rank of the First Enchanter, and if anyone held the power, it was him. Before he could realize what he was doing, he reached out and smacked the Mage. “I am not your lackey.”

Blood was dripping from the First Enchanter’s mouth. He touched it, as if he still wasn’t sure what was happening. “I- You-” He looked up at Koleman, fear in his eyes. “Yes, Knight-Commander.”

It was time the Templars got some proper respect.

* * *

 

“She wanted me to tell you that she’s safe.”

Lord Rickton stared at the doll the ex-Templar was holding out. He reached out and took it. It was Alda’s. His Alda’s.

Lady Isabel took one look at it, and then spoke to the man. “Whatever you need, we’ll give it to you. Thank you. Thank you, Ser, thank you.” She dropped all pretense of composure and hugged the ex-Templar.

He looked very awkward. “I’d just like a lil’ place to retire, is all, Miss Lady.”

“We have a carriage house. I can have it cleaned and a garden planted beside it if you want, and…”

Lord Rickton toned out his wife, still staring down at the doll. Alda was safe, probably on the run from Templars. News of the Circle’s minor rebellion had swept through the Free Marches, and he’d been worried sick. Actually, both he and Isabel. Rickton found that he was smiling and tearing up. She was safe. She was alive. She was alright.

Alda was alright.

* * *

 

_I’d kill for whatever that is._

Alda followed her nose through the frozen streets. It’d taken her weeks to avoid every town she could find until she figured she was far enough away that the Templars weren’t going to find her wandering about.

Her winter cloak was buttoned up high, her scarf keeping her hood on, and her sack had been traded for a proper bag. It’d cost her some coins, but the kind lady working the booth seemed to realize that Alda was on the run from something, and offered her a deal.

The lady’s son had been nice enough to direct her towards a safe place to spend the night, too.

Alda’s coins hadn’t been touched in years. There was no use for them in the Circle, so they’d been sitting in their pouch. Now she had no idea how much each was worth, nor where to spend them. She figured she ought to keep them and only use them when she had to.

Such as buying a bit of whatever smelled so delicious.

She stepped around a man lecturing his son over letting something fall into the slushy streets.

Slush. It was a novelty. Slush was rare and streets, she hadn’t seen a proper street since before she was in the Circle.

Her smile was out-of-place enough that she was garnering some odd looks. Alda didn’t care. Being in a wonderful mood wasn’t such a horrible thing.

Her nose led her to a booth. A whole pig was being roasted over coals. It was slowly rotating, fat dripping into the fire and creating sparks. Vegetables were on smaller spits, being turned by apprentices.

She got in line and purchased a sandwich and vegetables. Alda took refuge from the busy streets to eat on a barrel in an alley.

_Maker, this is perfect._

Alda leaned against a crate, wiping her mouth with her sleeves. The Circle didn’t have meals like that. It was soups and stews and the occasional steamed vegetable and small cut of meat. Never something delicious or lovingly made.

Her full belly was making her tired. Weeks of eating stolen winter vegetables out of gardens or snitching bread that bakers deemed inedible was starting to take a toll on her, and that meal…

_I’ll come back tomorrow._

She took to the street, following the directions from the nice bag lady. A small tavern was supposed to be down one of the alleys by the docks…

But there weren’t any signs, and the people walking around didn’t look very friendly. They avoided her gaze.

Alda frowned. It was the third alley down, the bag lady had said, but there weren’t any doors down that alley.

Maybe she wasn’t seeing it?

The ice was slick in the alley. She picked her way through the hidden ice patches, looking for a door, a sign, something.

“Hello, pretty.”

Alda whirled, clutching her bag close. It was the bag lady’s son. His sinister smile was making her doubt that his intentions were honorable, as was the sharp little knife in his hand.

“Give me that bag, and I won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t think you’re telling the truth.” She took a step back, finding ice under her boot.

He slowly approached, twirling the knife in his fingers. “I’m not, lass. But give me the bag, and I might let you go without being hurt. If you earn it.” He held the knife in one hand while he reached for the strings holding his pants up.

Alda took a deep breath, and then flicked her wrist. The ice under them got even colder. Their damp boots were suddenly frozen to the street.

She was prepared for it, and pulled her boots up, putting her magic into making sure his were stuck.

He was still, staring at her. “Apostate,” he whispered.

_A-pot-what?_

“APOSTATE! THERE’S AN APOSTATE LASS HERE!”

Alda ran down the alleys blindly, blood pounding in her ears. Someone was chasing her, she hung a left, a right, right, ducked under a crumbling archway, ‘round some barrels-

She skidded to a stop and cursed at her bootprints. It didn’t matter how fast she ran.

A wave of her hand and they vanished in the snow.

Relief pooled in her chest as she caught her breath, now heading away from that part of the town.

The relief was quick-lived.

Alda froze in place as if she’d been hit with her own boot-sticking-to-ice magic.

Templars. From Ostwick. She recognized their leader. It was one of the Templars who’d been assigned to guarding her. He was a stubborn man who once risked cutting his cheek open to get a corn kernel out of his teeth with a knife.

They hadn’t seen her yet.

Alda turned, took in the ships, and had a terrible, terrible idea. A brilliant one, but still terrible. She approached one of the captains. “Where’re you going to?”

“Frel’den. Ten sovereigns to get ‘cross the Wakin’ Sea.”

Fereldan. It was as far as she could get from the Templars.

* * *

 

She didn’t count on Fereldan being so bloody cold. There was snow, and there there was Fereldan snow. The flakes weren’t fat and wet, no, they stung the face and stayed there. Not even salt water could deter winter.

Denerim was horrible.

Alda weaved through the various part of the massive city, completely lost and completely frozen to the core. The docks were somewhere behind her. She needed a place to sleep, and not outside. She’d had enough of sleeping outside on the ship deck, along with everyone else who didn’t want to pay another ten sovereigns to be below decks.

Her cloak was frozen stiff from the knees down. She had on as many socks as possible while still able to fit her feet into her boots.

She turned down another street, looking for someplace to find food.

A Chantry was at the end of the street.

It would be better than nothing. She could pretend to be… Alda cast her mind about and settled on orphan. Her parents died in the Blight and her grandmother raised her. And now her grandmother had died.

It would work.

And perhaps the Sisters could suggest a place on where to get better clothes for winter.

* * *

 

Lady Isabel bursted excitedly into Rickton’s office. “Another letter.”

He shoved aside his ledger. “From Alda?”

“While I am excited when we get letters from Adea and Aeron, I am never this excited.” She seated herself on the armrest, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. “Dear Mother and Father, I made it safely through Val Royeaux, and…”

Rickton didn’t bother telling her to read it aloud. He didn’t want to interrupt. Instead he tilted his head and adjusted his glasses to read around her arm.

Alda had been in Orlais.

_Pity we can’t send mail back. She could’ve hidden at Adea’s._

None of Alda’s occasional letters ever told them where she was headed to. It was a precaution against Templars intercepting them and trying to figure out where she was. Knight-Commander Koleman had visited twice with his Templars to search the manor from roof to cellar.

Ser Gavin had wisely borrowed a horse and left for the day to avoid the man.

Rickton didn’t care for the Knight-Commander. Isabel refused to deal with “that horrid man”.

He finished reading the letter, smiling at the ‘Love, Alda’ at the bottom.

Isabel sighed. “At least she’s doing better. Her writing’s steadier.”

“Yes. Maybe one day she’ll come back.”

“I’ve been praying that she does.” She stood, folding the letter back up. “I’m going to put this with the others.”

He nodded his agreement, mind wandering to what his youngest was up to now. Adea, it was easy to know what she was doing. He was in charge of her finances. Alda, though… he worried. Isabel did, too. She saved all of Alda’s letters in a pile next to Dollie.

Both letters and Dollie were kept on Alda’s old vanity. Sometimes he caught Isabel changing Dollie’s clothes to match the season. “It’s what Alda would’ve wanted,” she said tartly, eyes red from tears.

He couldn’t blame her. Sometimes he picked out one of the fairy tales to read.

But he would be alright. So would Isabel. As long as the letters kept coming.

* * *

 

“Damn Orleasians,” she cursed under her breath as she crossed back into Fereldan.

The whole country smelled like too much perfume. And the masks.

Alda hated the masks. But Orlais was big enough, and had enough overly-perfumed cities, for her to travel around for the better part of a year.

But the Templars had caught up with her again in Val Royeaux, so she’d started back into Fereldan.

Fereldan wasn’t too bad in early spring, either, except for all the rain. It was cold, and it was wet. If Orlais smelled like too much perfume, Fereldan stank of wet dog. It was a coin toss to see which was worse, depending on how the wind blew.

She slipped into a place called Highever. It was either a small city or a very large town. Regardless, it was safety.

Alda weaved expertly through the markets, looking for a semi-respectable tavern. She’d learned the hard way that thieves liked to sneak into rooms and steal gold. And she learned the much harder way that placing an ice trap just inside her door would result in yells of “apostate!”

She just had to pay to be left alone. It didn’t always work, but she made sure that the knife strapped to the inside of her arm was shown when she handed over her coins.

The innkeepers didn’t need to know that she hadn’t the faintest idea on how to use it.

Alda scratched absentmindedly at her woolen coat. It fit under her vest, and kept her warm in the chilly southern countries. Her bag was a lot lighter, too. Over the year she’d collected various bits of coin to eventually save up for a belt and pouches to fasten to it. They were filled with elfroot and some other herbs for healing. Her cloak was faded and ripped at the hem, but it did it’s job.

Her boots were new and blisters had formed.

The inn she chose was nicer than her usual choices. Alda negotiated a reasonable price for the worst room, and added in an extra silver for a hot bath.

It would do her well to bathe and get a good night’s rest.

* * *

 

The Templars weren’t giving up, it seemed.

Alda frowned at the WANTED posted on a Chantry board. It gave her general description (brown-haired, freckled, blue/green eyes, slightly shorter than average) as being a dangerous apostate and a hefty sum if she was turned in to the nearest Templar. Or if she was spotted, to send a message Knight-Commander Koleman at Ostwick.

_Perhaps I’ll take you up on that order._

She went looked for the nearest raven handler.

* * *

 

Ser Finnigan was certain that someone was playing a prank on him. Knight-Commander Koleman had send an actual crate of letters to him.

A fuckin’ crate.

Ser Finnigan settled down in his chose tavern table and started to go through them. It’d seemed pretty mundane at first. Someone spotted the runaway Trevelyan here, or there, and someone was certain that she’d killed their grandmother to steal some silver teapot that apparently was used as a weapon during the Blight..

The usual bullshit from a public who didn’t know an apostate from their ass.

One letter, though, seemed real. It was written properly, even sealed with wax, and gave a detailed description of Trevelyan. In…

_This is a load of crap._

She was not in King Alistair’s palace.

Someone was having a laugh at his expense.

Ser Finnigan raised his hand. “Barkeep, another. Make it two.”

He’d have to use her phylactery again.

_Fuckin’ pranksters._

* * *

 

The breeze had a bite to it. Winter was on it’s way, and while she didn’t want to spend it in Fereldan, the memories of Orlais were still tainted with all the foul perfumes. So Alda had done what she could to every Chantry she passed, discreetly pulling down the WANTED signs about herself.

But she didn’t feel like it was enough. Anyone who read those would know what she looked like. She needed to change her appearance.

An idea had struck her when she’d seen a couple dwarves go past her.

A tattoo. If she was indeed supposed to be on the run from the Chantry, then she was supposed to blend in. Everyone would be looking under hoods, not paying attention to the tattooed girl walking down the middle of the street. Hiding in plain sight.

“Ser, is there someone who can give me a tattoo in town?”

The innkeep gave her extremely detailed directions to a particular place in Redcliffe. “It’s under some cloth shop. It’s got a couple knots on the wood door, and the window over the door’s stuck shut.”

Alda politely listened to the description before packing up and headed towards the tattooist, keeping her head down and minding her braid.

_A haircut could help, too… That’s for another day._

Lost in thought, Alda missed seeing a trio of Templars arrive as she wove through the town.

The tattooist was a dwarf, his face and exposed arms covered in inked lines. “Lemme guess. Tattoo.”

“Yes, ser.”

He looked taken aback at the polite title. “Right. What ye want? Skull somewhere? Lover’s name on yer arse? Flower somewhere? Ye seem like a flower sort.”

“I- I don’t know. Something on my face to hide what I look like.”

The tattooist frowned. “Trying to hide from someone?”

“Um…”

“I figured. Sit down, lass. How much you care about what it looked like?”

If it kept the Templars from finding her… “I don’t care.”

His smile practically glowed. “Right. Lie back and I’ll fix ye up.”

Alda settled down on the hard bench, hood acting as a pillow, and tried to not twitch a muscle as he put some smelly paste on her face.

“This might hurt a wee bit.” The tattooist picked a thin strip of wood with a needle on the end and dipped it into ink. In his other hand was a small hammer. “Or a lot. Depends. Ever’one’s different.”

He aimed the needle over her left eye and tapped the hammer gently onto the stick.

It hurt something awful, but Alda gritted her teeth and tried to ignore it.

Slowly the needle worked its way from her eyebrow to little patches under her eye. The tattooist was bringing the hammer down against when the sound of something trying to see how many punches it would take to get through a door came from the front of the shop.

“OPEN UP! TEMPLARS IN SEARCH OF AN APOSTATE!”

_Andraste’s knickers._

The tattooist flinched and fire erupted over her eye.

Alda swore softly and blindly grabbed her cloak. “Is there another way out?”

“Templars? Yer running from Templars?”

She threw a small bolt of lightning at a grubby window. A shard of glass snagged her arm as she crawled out. Armor clanked to her left, and Alda ran right. She’d had lots of practice over the past year and a half on running. She considered herself something of an expert on it.

However running with only one eye open was not ideal. She tried to wipe the blood out of it and ended up yelping at the pain.

Her yelp attracted attention. People stared at her, horrified.

_That’s encouraging. I hope it’s healable._

She rounded a corner and knocked over a barrel of apples. The booth owner swore at her, but Alda had bigger problems. Like the Templars, and then her eye, then whatever the merchant was saying.

Alda flicked her hands out and cast ice magic in the street, coating everything in a healthy layer of ice for the Templars to slip on.

Curses and yells of ‘apostate!’ followed her as she shot past someone trying to tackle her and made it into the forest surrounding the town.

She didn’t stop running until the next morning.

* * *

 

Something wet was on was her face.

Alda started to frown, and instead hissed at the pain radiating from her face.

The wet thing was rain, dripping from a couple leaves onto her face. Nearby a stream gurgles.

She sat up, listened, and crawled to the stream, sticking her face right in. Slowly the icy water numbed her face enough that she risked patting it to get a sense of the wound.

It felt like one long cut from her mid-forehead to her cheek, thankfully not going through her eye.

Alda dipped her scarf in the stream and carefully wiped away the dried blood until she could open her other eye. “That’s better.” She fumbled through her pockets for elfroot to plaster onto her face to fight any infections and help it heal.

Once that was done, she leaned back against a tree, ignoring the rain dripping down into her.

The Templars had found her. She’d have to cross back to Orlais, maybe catch a ship somewhere else and get a few days without having to look over her shoulder.

She groaned.

The way back to Orlais would be through the mountains. The snow-covered mountains. At the end of autumn.

_Maker._

The alternative was being back in the Circle for the rest of her life.

Alda climbed to her feet and started towards the mountains that were a haze on the horizon.

* * *

 

The cut was going to scar. It was already scabbed, and itched like a demon was trying to scratch it’s way out of her flesh.

_That’s a disturbing thought._

She was running low of elfroot. Some she’d eaten, just because she felt like snacking and it’d help her heal faster. Other leaves were chewed into a mash and then she haphazardly patted onto her scabbed cut.

Halfway up the mountain, two weeks after she’d gotten the cut, Alda realized something she really wish she’d thought of. The Templars had thought of her plan. Further down the mountain, she could see them. Three armored figures following her exact same path, maybe a day or two behind her.

Even picking up her pace, they were still closing in. She was used to running, not hiking or climbing.

And then they saw her.

“Andraste’s socks,” she cursed. They were closer than she thought.

There was no market to lose them in. It was quite literally a race up the mountain.

Alda’s legs burned as she tore up the path. Fear stung at her eyes, bring forth tears. She couldn’t go back into the Circle, she couldn’t be stuck there for the rest of her life, in her boring little room and only getting letter from Mother and Father.

She pushed herself faster, panic flooding her veins so she felt like she was flying over the snow.

A look back showed that the Templars were gaining on her.

A dark shadow caught her eye. It looked-

_A mining tunnel!_

If it was just one long tunnel, then it would be a good place as any for a last stand. And if there were other tunnels and mines branching off of it… that would be better.

Alda sprinted into the tunnel, past old lanterns and whatever was carved on the wall. She went deeper, ignoring the colder it got. She hooked a left, and right, and leapt up a ladder to pause at the top.

Echoes of far-away armor reached her.

“This way!” a voice yelled, and the clanking got closer.

She took off again, but her muscles were screaming. Alda took the second right, another ladder up, a left, a right, and… She didn’t remember how she got where she was, only that her hand that she’d used to feel her way was scratch and probably had splinters.

Only the dripping of something in an enormous cavern told her was alone. No Templar armor jingling, only her trying to catch her breath.

Slowly she raised her hand, summoning as much veilfire as possible, which wasn’t much to being with but even less so since she was exhausted, to cast light around her.

It wasn’t a mining tunnel. There were no cart tracks in the floor, nor pebbles nor dust in the corners. It was some other sort of tunnel.

Alda traveled deeper into the mountain, taking tunnels that seemed to be more worn.

_What is this place?_

Finally she reached a set of stairs. At the top was a half-rotted wooden door. She shoved it open, and found herself in a dusty storage room, except dusty was an understatement. It was like dust had been told to heavily coat everything, but then went overboard with it.

She covered her nose and waded to the other door, to find it stubborn to open.

The reason why was because a skeleton was leaning against it.

_Well. That’s disgusting._

Alda went through that room, and another two, before she found a room where it looked like a living someone had been in recently. A desk had a steaming mug of cider and a little plate of cookies.

She bit her lip and, after a look around, snitched a cookie. Her stomach rumbled it’s approval.

Outside the room was a chantry Sister.

“I’m so sorry, I’m lost… Hello?” Alda waved her hand in front of the Sister’s eyes. Nothing. She patted her on the arm and winced at the handprint. Dirt from the tunnels covered her hands. Yet the Sister didn’t move.

It was like she was frozen in time.

Serious magic was at work.

Alda continued deeper into the place, finding more people stuck in time.

No, not stuck in time. An hourglass in someone’s hand was still trickling down.

_Who could freeze everyone like this?_

She paused. Was that… Something was coming from the Chantry. Alda frowned as someone begged for help, forcing her legs into a jog. She reached the doors and flung them open.

* * *

 

She was falling upwards, into the sky-

Her hand felt like it was being roasted over coals.

“Come on, come on. Andraste bless us.”

A white hat, something like what Mother Beatrice wore, was floating over her head.

Alda turned and leered down at a mountain peak that pointed towards a thousand eyes.

Her braid fell over her shoulder and sprouted eyes, the ribbon turning into a tongue and flicking out to taste the air-

Whatever word that was stuck on her tongue was too heavy to say. It was weighing her down with memories of fear and pain and skittering noises in the darkness.

The eyes stared back. All one thousand of them.

A bright glow blinded her-

Blood was running out of her mouth. Did she bite her tongue? Alda opened her mouth to ask the white hat-

Her hand was made of fire. Green flames licked the oily water floating up around her-

“Andraste, give me strength,” a voice said-

Alda tripped on her feet, all three- no, four of them, and found herself hitting a rock outcrop that hung over the white hat.

The white hat-

It wasn’t a hat, what what she thinking? It was a figure, with a hat-like shape for a head. It held out her hand, beckoning her to climb up to her.

_How did I get down here?_

Her mind seemed to stop trying to figure everything out. Alda stared at her flaming hand. It was definitely still full of green fire. It flickered back and forth between one hand and two hands. Her head felt like she was underwater, but her lips were dry and-

“Come on, give me your hand!”

Skittering noises, little clacking echoes of tiny claws on stone, pulled her attention back down. At the bottom of the mountain were deepstalkers. A horde of deepstalkers. A thousand deepstalker eyes blinked up at her before they started swarming the mountain.

“Your hand!”

Alda scrambled up the mountain, seeing a glowing figure waiting for her, hand outstretched. She didn’t understand what they were saying, but the intent was clear.

She reached out, fingers brushing against theirs-

* * *

 

The snow was cold, as snow ought to be.

Alda felt like she’d just spent the past twenty minutes throwing up. Her head was swimming, the ground tipped over sideways-

_Cold snow. Good snow, good snow._

She patted the snow. It knew it was supposed to be cold.

The world was turning green.

It was something to figure out later. Her eyes weren’t listening as she told them to stay open.

The last thing she saw was a pair of boots.


End file.
